Rattle Brain

Rattle. Rattle. Rattlesnake.
Shake rattle and roll.
Roll over and over and over again.
Over and rattle again and again.
Rattle brain.

My eyes are getting heavy. I can hear their thunderous movements scraping against my dry sockets. I am hoping that these hands will follow, and slow down under the weight of straining to keep a train of thought on a weary track. Prepositions become too much effort to go back and correct. Just keep typing and watching the thoughts get more sporadic and lethargic. Slowing to a sputter. Breathing steadier. Breathing steadier. Slowing to a sputter. Breathing steadier. Slow sputter.

These lines of lotion… random slips of words… silky smooth, mean nothing. Written for the sheer sake of misfired synapses. Smith & Wesson. Forty-Five caliber, semi-automatic. Twenty-two seconds to two. Wait, while time waits for no one. Time is money. Money waits for no one, yet we all individually and collectively wait on both the time and the money. We wait on something that is not waiting at all. What are we waiting for then? Because waiting is time. Time is waiting. It’s time to go to bed. The ebb and follow the leader of the pack of cigarettes, Lucky Strike, to be exactly in the place I can only ever begin to imagine. And the pinky pricks the period marking the end of the last words on earth to be written on nothing at all or nothing as nothing is all there is to be written. Period.

Sleep you godamned body. Other people can turn out my lights while I can do nothing about it. The light switch is lost somewhere in the blinding light.